


The Caretaker

by Kaz_of_Carinthia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 16:23:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaz_of_Carinthia/pseuds/Kaz_of_Carinthia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of Sherlock's most treasures possession is his violin - this is how they are reunited upon his return to 221b Baker Street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Caretaker

**Author's Note:**

> Implies knowledge of "The Reichenbach Fall", Episode Three/Season Two, Sherlock (BBC). Not very spoilerish.
> 
> Inspired by legions of tremendously talented fanfic writers on Ao3 and elsewhere, as well as an irrational but enduring love of these characters.
> 
> Not beta-ed. Comments welcome.
> 
> I do not, in any way, profit from the story and all creative rights to the characters belong to their original creators.

His fingers trembled as he gently lifted the instrument from its bed of midnight-blue velvet. Neglected for so long, it would be terribly out of tune. No doubt it would need to be re-strung and of course the bow would also need urgent attention. The scent of rosin and wood polish was as familiar and soothing as ever, in fact, it hardly appeared to have lessened, despite his prolonged absence.

 

Sliding the shoulder rest into place, he grasped the delicate neck, curling his fingers possessively around the strings as he lifted the violin onto his shoulder. Unconsciously, his spine straightened, the back of his neck elongating, as he tucked his chin against the smooth wood of the chin rest. Holding the bow lightly in his right hand, he flexed his fingers subtly, enjoying the sensation as the perfectly weighted pernambuco rocked gently in balance and counter-balance, tension rippling up the muscles of his arm in response.

 

Preparing himself for unhappy dissonance, he drew the bow across all four strings in quick succession, only to stop in amazement, and lower his bowing arm. The instrument had yielded rich, liquid tones, perfectly pitched and in exquisite harmony. How was this possible?

 

Meddling _bloody_ Mycroft briefly came to mind, but Mrs. Hudson had assured him that his older brother had not set foot in the flat after what had been, by all accounts, an epic confrontation with John at the Diogenes Club. Mrs. Hudson herself had placed his belongings into boxes, stacked carefully in his old bedroom and assiduously dusted. The violin hadn’t been among his things. She hadn’t noticed at first, what with being really rather upset, and then she hadn’t wanted to worry poor Doctor Watson, because he just seemed so … so _broken_.

 

Sherlock had been back for a week when his gaze fell upon the familiar shape of his violin case. Returning from the dead had been both better and infinitely worse than he could ever have imagined, and John’s brittle “it’s fine” to everything was fooling no-one: There were storm clouds brewing, and Sherlock was going to have to weather them, because he had never, _never_ intended to cause so much pain and damage when he followed the only path left to him by a madman.

 

The violin had only just reappeared. Sherlock was sure it hadn’t been in his room when he lay sleepless and heartsick, curled into a tight ball of misery on top of the covers on the night he came home to Baker Street.

 

Someone had kept it safe. More than that: had cared for it, polished it, tuned the strings, released the tension on the bow, applied fresh, fragrant rosin. Someone had loved it on his behalf and in his absence, and this realisation gave Sherlock hope.

 

With fresh courage and determination, Sherlock let his fingers fly across the strings, the bow coaxing familiar tunes, melodious fragments of shared memories, from the beloved instrument.

 

Beyond the door, John silently pressed his forehead against the wall, hot tears of gratitude, of joy and relief coursing down his cheeks, washing away the pain of grief and the burden of anger.

 

Sherlock was home, and even if things were not yet fine, they were going to be.


End file.
